


working up to something sweet

by hurryup



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunken Confessions, M/M, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8511850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: So, to summarise, the problem was this: Allen was maybe, kind of developing an inappropriate crush on his roommate-slash-friend. His roommate-slash-friend who took selfies like a suburban mom, baked like he belonged on the Food Network, and was generally much better suited to measured political debate than regular human interaction.





	

Allen had a problem.  
  
A very serious problem too, one that had him reeling in a state of near crisis; although, then again, perhaps Allen's entire life could be described as him hurtling forwards from crisis to crisis. Either way, that didn't make his current strife any less troubling. The problem in particular was blonde, 5'8, and named Howard Link.  
  
Of course, no one called him Howard; if you ever tried it, he made the funniest expression, like a man doing his best to politely contain a full-body cringe. This was generally enough to ward anyone off from trying it again— unless you were Lavi, and had come to openly embrace the obnoxiousness of your being. Allen wasn't quite there yet. Besides, he kind of liked the sound of Link; the short, clipped sound of a name that somehow managed to suit him in a way he didn't quite have the words to describe.  
  
As far as roommates went, they made an odd pair; Link the business major to Allen's music, neat and well-pressed in contrast to Allen's less practical sensibilities. All the same, in spite of that, Allen really liked living with Link. For one, Link possessed that one miraculous ability, coveted by college students across America: the ability to cook. Although he was meticulous in other respects, he was really good about sharing food— in fact, he kind of insisted. He was always getting after Allen to take better care of himself. One time, when Allen had wound up sick after studying nonstop for midterms, he'd made soup and baked fresh bread— though his goodwill was always accompanied with endless chastisement.  
  
Well. Maybe it was the good kind of chastising. The kind that reminded you someone gave a shit if you worked yourself into the ground. The kind that came as something as a relief.  
  
And there was the problem, right there, in that relief. In the vague, distant unravelling of Allen's heart whenever Link fixed Allen with that look. Sometimes, he even tried to make Allen laugh, which of course when terribly because Link was so damned serious, but it relaxed Allen regardless. How could it not? Link was so damned earnest. Distressingly hot, too.

That was a problem in itself.  
  
So, to summarise, the problem was this: Allen was maybe, kind of developing an inappropriate crush on his roommate-slash-friend. His roommate who took selfies like a suburban mom, baked like he belonged on the Food Network, and was generally much better suited to measured political debate than regular human interaction. And Link was oblivious and beautiful and none of Allen's friends seemed to like him and it was _terrible_. Really, genuinely terrible.  
  
_Especially_ terrible was when Allen was in the living room when Link came out of the shower, loose, damp hair curling over bare shoulders, towel wrapped around his waist, the sinewy build of his pale body cooling off in the open air—  
  
So very, fantastically terrible.  
  
So terrible Allen wasn't quite sure what to do about it.  
  
He spent the night at the kitchen table, poring over his notes for a theory class. He tapped the side of the table absently with one hand— his good hand— to the rhythm of the clock, which ticked overhead. The rhythm was steady, like a heartbeat.  
  
An odd kind of comfort.  
  
There was the sound of the front door being slammed shut, and Allen lifted his head from his textbook and blinked as Link stumbled through, moving across the flat with one hand against the wall. There was a kind of artlessness there Allen wouldn't typically associate with him, and he blinked, at first not quite fully understanding the situation.  
  
Link came into the kitchen, swaying slightly where he stood, and sank into the nearest chair opposite from Allen.  
  
"Tokusa dragged me out," he said blankly, in way of an explanation. Tokusa was a friend of Link's back from his fancy, private high school— and although Allen had only interacted with him a few times, he had the vague idea Tokusa was the troublemaker out of the two. Meanwhile, Link claimed he was about 90% of Tokusa's impulse control, and Allen believed it.  
  
Then, Link frowned, papery pink lips parting around his next words with a slow, bleary concentration that Allen probably shouldn't have found adorable. The conclusion would have come to Allen just about then even without Link's next words. "I think I'm very... very drunk."  
  
"You think?" Allen bit back a grin, pulling a chair up to the table next to Link. Link's cheeks were flushed, and with every long blink of his eyes, his lashed fanned against them in an effect that was sort of mesmerising to observe. His shirt seemed rumpled, and one of the cuffs had come undone, leaving him looking uncharacteristically dishevelled. Link nodded with a seriousness that bordered on hilarious.  
  
It really was something, Allen thought to himself, to see someone who was normally so prim and self-contained loosen up a little like this— even though the effect was only, of course, temporary. Still, he found himself reluctantly charmed.  
  
Allen leaned forwards, elbows against the table, considering him.  
  
Kind of enviable, too, really. Allen made a terrible drunk. Did nothing but shout and cry. No good for parties, and certainly nothing cute about it. Not like Link's vague eyes, sliding over Allen's face, bright and blank, alcohol having warmed his gaze to let slip the heat beneath his winter. But hey. When it came to the two of them, Allen was always going to come out as the wreck.  
  
That, he supposed, was another problem.  
  
The two of them went on for a while, speaking with a comfortable aimlessness. Link recounted the the events of the night with extreme solemnity — Tokusa dragging him out to a bar for some mutual friend's birthday, too many shots, nearly ending up at a strip club, which was such an extraordinary un-Link place Allen that laughed out loud at the idea. Every now and then, he absentmindedly lapsed into German, and Allen would have to prod him in the ribs and remind him to speak a language Allen actually understood, though he liked the sound of those quiet, senselessly spoken words. He really did.  
  
" _Mir ist schwindlig_ ," Link murmured, putting his face in his hands. Voice low.  
  
Certainly refreshing, being the one to boss Link around. Allen helped him to his feet and Link swayed against him. Allen fought back a grin as he held him, one arm wrapped about Link's waist. “C’mon, you. I’m going to put you to bed.”  
  
“Bed?" He blinked.  
  
"Well, maybe that's a tall order. Can you make it to the couch?"  
  
Link nodded, and Allen guided him across the room, setting him on the sofa they shared at the far side of their apartment.  
  
"Whisking your uptight business major of a childhood friend off and pouring enough shots into him he can't walk on his own," Allen commented. "True friendship. Well done, Tokusa."  
  
"He tried to get me to dance," Link said. He sat down dutifully, looking at Allen with unfocused eyes as he bent to remove Link's shoes. "It was horrible."  
  
Allen very nearly snorted. " _Extremely_ well done, Tokusa"  
  
Link nodded again, mechanically, seeming to think about it. "Although he isn't the one... walking me the couch."  
  
"I'm a good friend, what can I say?" Allen pushed up off the ground and turned over to sit next to Link.  
  
"You're certainly... very good," Link agreed. Something caught in his tone, and Allen frowned, not quite sure what it could be. He pressed on, regardless, speaking with the beginnings of a smile.  
  
"Does this mean I have brownie points over Tokusa?"  
  
Link laughed, and there it was again. Something not quite right.  
  
"I don't think of you the same way as I think of Tokusa," he said, voice low. Allen felt something in his chest constrict suddenly, painfully.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"I... really care about you," Link continued. He sounded as if he was putting a great deal of effort into not slurring his words— every word was compartmentalized. "More than I should."  
  
He trailed off, gaze sliding away from Allen's face towards the carpet, eyes glassy and vague. Allen froze, heart hammering wildly in his chest— though he was sure, so sure, he felt it skip a beat.  
  
"Link."  
  
"Don't be mad," Link continued suddenly, out of nowhere. "Please— I just... can't help feeling..."  
  
"You're drunk," Allen said, not knowing where this was headed. Not wanting Link to say something he'd regret. Or for Allen to say something he'd regret. Link shook his head slowly, eyes having narrowed so that only the brightness of the iris was visible to Allen.  
  
"Please don't be mad," Link repeated, on such a gentle edge of desperation that Allen nearly ached for him. He turned to face Allen, now, blonde hair just a little askew from that perfect braid, teeth worrying his bottom lip.  
  
He could smell the liquor on Link's breath, sharp and heady. Probably, Link didn’t even know what he was saying. Just as likely was him not having any memory of this in the morning— but, oh god, how badly he wanted this to be true. How badly he wanted for Link to mean this, remember this, and be ready for this. Wanted for this to mean something. And maybe he was kidding himself, maybe this was nothing, _he's drunk, it's late—_  
  
Allen moved to put distance between himself and Link, trying to wrap his head around the situation.  
  
"Link, God, I'm not mad, it's just—"  
  
Then Link leaned towards him, angled his mouth against Allen's softly. His lips started just above Allen's upper divet with a barely-there brush, then, moving his head with the slightest decline, Link kissed him with gentle curiosity. It was tentative. More tentative and careful than any other kiss Allen had given or received. A blurry, soft-edged kiss.  
  
Link's lips were learning the shape of Allen's, attempting without hope to commit them to memory.  
  
Allen knelt there, feeling unable to move, _I shouldn't, I know I really shouldn't,_ and then he opened his mouth to it instinctively, _wanting_ it despite all the nerves that spiked at the base of his stomach. Link's teeth caught on Allen's bottom lip, and rather than clumsy, it managed to feel impossibly good. Sublime. With one hand, Link reached up and cupped Allen's face, thumb stroking over the scar as if it weren't just some ugly byproduct of his ugly past, but something beautiful and worthy of exploration in its own right.  
  
Link pulled away then, retreating from the kiss as softly as he had come. As Allen gaped in silent shock, Link slumped down against him, pressing his into the crook of Allen's neck. His weight leaned against Allen heavily— kind of slack.  
  
Allen held his breath, waiting, then the slow, steady sensation of Link's chest rising and falling gave him pause.  
  
"Link?"  
  
There was no answer. He’d passed out.  
  
Allen sat there for a moment, catching his breath— and moreover, trying to take stock of the situation. Of... whatever this meant.

He closed his eyes, tried to force himself to calm down. As far as he knew, there wasn't really any protocol for this; a protocol for being kissed by your drunk-out-of-his-mind crush only for him to promptly collapse into unconsciousness against you. Insecurity and, even worse, hope turned his stomach into a mosh pit.  
  
As carefully as he could, he disentangled himself from Link, maneuvering him so that he slumped down against the couch.  
  
With that, he slowly made his way back to his room. The clock in the kitchen ticked on and on, never once acknowledging what had happened.  
  
In the total darkness of his bedroom, he traced his lips with the pad of his thumb; feeling, ridiculously, that he could feel the phantom memory of Link's own pressed against them. Though he was sure he wouldn't forget— he'd have to be dead to forget that— he held the memory close; wound it back and played it over in his head.

Suffice to say, he didn't sleep that night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> when things are terrible sometimes you've just gotta write modern au fluff
> 
> hurryupfic @ tumblr


End file.
